


anacampserote

by leitmotifs (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Frozen AU, M/M, spoilers for Frozen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/leitmotifs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were six times he asked, and six times you did not answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	anacampserote

**Author's Note:**

> heavily inspired by [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pvN4YnFgmEQ) because it should have been part of the movie, ahh. there are Frozen spoilers in that video and in this fic, in case anyone hasn't seen it yet!

“Do you want to build a snowman?” he asks the closed door, and his voice is slightly muffled like he's got his mouth pressed directly against the wood and the funny thing is, you can imagine that. He's Niall, a year older than you but still all innocence and naïveté and here he is and you can see his shadow moving under the crack of the door.

You knock loudly, and there's a startled yelp and a thump from the other side. "That's rude," you remind him, and there's maybe a hint of a smile on your face because you can imagine how flustered he must look.

“Let's go outside, Harry,” he says anyway, unrelenting, and this time you don't answer because you can't trust your voice to say no.

Eventually, you hear a soft sigh— then footsteps, getting fainter and fainter. Guilt is a heavy feeling in your chest, but even at ten years old, you know he’s safer away from you.

You step away, and your eyes do not linger on the blotch of ice that your knuckles have left on the door.

 

 

 

“Do you want to build a snowman?”

You look up from your bed, at the door and at the shadow bobbing uncertainly beneath. You can imagine him fidgeting from foot to foot, blue eyes flickering between the intricate designs and his shoes.

A small sigh slips past your lips, and it’s as if he can hear you:

“Please, Harry?”

Silence falls over the room and you let it, unmoving, and there pass seconds and minutes of baited breath until finally, the shadow disappears.

“You’ll freeze out there,” you say to the ceiling. “Do you want to build a fort in here, instead?”

You’re lying on your back and beneath you, the sheets are part fabric, part ice, and this is why you do not dare speak more than a whisper.

 

 

 

“Do you want to build a snowman?”

He sounds older and fittingly so, because when he sat outside your door yesterday and sang _happy birthday_ to you in four different languages, you realized you were growing up and out there, on the other side of that door, he must be too.

You turn to the next page of your book. Gloves adorn your hands now, given to you by Niall’s parents— these same people who took you in when your parents died and to whom you owe everything.

He’s talking now, a habit that began a little over a month ago. You picture him leaning on the other side of the door, talking to the windows but speaking to you, and he must think that you’re actually listening.

He’s right. You’re reading but the words you’re hearing are the ones coming from his mouth and he always closes with an, “It’s okay, we can go outside tomorrow,” that leaves your stomach churning more than before.

On these nights, you never sleep properly.

 

 

 

“Do you want to build a snowman?” he asks.

You’re already by the door.

“My parents have gone on their trip,” he adds.

You can see him, fair blond hair tousled and eyes still sleepy. The window says it’s barely dawn and he’s never been a morning person.

“The ballroom floor is newly polished. We can go dancing instead.”

And your heart feels a little funny at that request. You wring your hands tight until the feeling passes.

“We can try baking together, now that we can reach the pantries.” He pauses again. “But I really want to go outside. I miss you.”

There’s a smile in his voice, but you wonder if he remembers how he used to stare at your hands in awe, how he laughed when you magicked little snow creatures to life, how he promised you’ll never be alone again because your parents might be gone, but you still have him.

You wonder if he remembers the night of your ninth birthday, when you offered to be his first waltz and you both laughed as snowflakes glittered from the golden chandelier up above. You wonder if he remembers the accident, the awry sliver of magic that spiked from your own fingertips and left his cheeks pale and his soft brown hair slowly turning blond.

You wonder if he remembers what a monster you are and you know that by his presence outside, by the affection he still holds in his voice— you know he does not.

You wait until he leaves.

 

 

 

“Do you want to build a snowman?”

His voice is not as lively as before: it’s a soft whisper, cracked at the edges and tinged bitterness.

You do not blame him.

You do not.

“I know you’re in there.”

The tallies on the wall say that he’s eighteen today, and you think he should not be wasting his time with you.

“It’s just us now, you know?”

You imagine him sitting with his back to the door, and maybe he knows that on the other side, you are doing the same. This is the closest you will ever be.

“Please,” he says, and his voice is thick and you want to be next to him and you want to tell him that you heard the news and you hear _him_ and you’re sorry and you’ll be there. You’ll be there for him. “Harry,” he starts again, pleading, “let me in.”

You do not.

Love is an open door; yours is splintered and frozen at the hinges.

 

 

 

“Do you want to build a snowman?”

There is little of your room yet untouched by ice.

His voice has changed – deeper, older – but it still holds the same innocence with which he said, when he took your hand ten years ago and your clumsy feet stumbled amidst the waltz, “I trust you.”

For a moment, he does not say anything, and you would think he’s gone but his shadow says otherwise.

There is the sound of clothing rustling and then you think he’s sat down. “I’m joining up the dots with the freckles on your cheek,” he says, unexpectedly, “and it all makes sense to me.”

And he sings like this, like the castle’s empty besides you two and there is nothing in between. At the last note, you say, very quietly, “You should be a singer.”

Because at night, the servants bring you news with food and necessities. Because you know what a solider sounds like and today, his footsteps were heavier and the clang of his sword was resolute. Because today, he spoke like this would be the last for a long time.

You think you’ve stunned him into silence. “You’re not meant for war.” The dresser lies split in two, spikes of ice protruding from the middle. Your gloves are a small heap near the window.

Sometimes you wonder if he’ll take a consort. Most times, you pretend your blood doesn’t boil at the thought.

“The kingdom needs me.”

You close your eyes.

“They need _us_.”

You listen.

“Won’t you let me in?”

You’re thinking of a million things and all of them have something to do with this boy who’s sat outside your door for years and years but your voice is out of words. He stands, eventually, and when he walks away, he sounds like a soldier – no, a _king_.

Ice blossoms from your hand and that, you think, is the only thing you will ever do.

 

 

 

The stars outside the window say it is midnight and the crickets chirp that you’re alone.

Your hands are clutching wood like it will bring him back but the draperies of black and the candles and the solemn blanket of silence say you’re too late.

A guard clears his throat behind you and he says something about letting them know when you’ve finished, but how are you supposed to know when that is? How long does it take to repent for half a life’s mistakes?

The guard steps out of the room, and then it is you and him.

He looks peaceful.

“Of course I want to build a snowman,” you whisper.

Your gloves are torn, destroyed among the ruins of your room, and when you run your fingers along his, it is nothing but skin on skin.

“I’m sorry I took so long.”

You do not let your hand linger.

“I didn’t know how much— how much I—” His eyes are closed now and you wonder if, despite the silence you gave him, he knew how much you loved him, how much he meant to you. “Just ask me one more time, Niall,” you say, and your head hurts and so does your chest and everything, every bone, and you’re so— tired.

He does not reply, of course.

You twine your fingers together and you plead, “I promise I’ll open the door.”

Maybe it is just the ice beneath your skin, but his hand feels warm in yours.

How foreign it is, the tear that slides down your cheek and drips onto the regalia of his coat.

 

 

 

(How familiar it is, the fingers suddenly squeezing yours and the soft, raspy voice that says, in a way that sounds like he’s smiling, “It took long enough.”)


End file.
